


Astrariums of Thedas

by SableR



Series: Starling's Flight [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Lore, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Jaws of Hakkon Spoilers, Orlesian Ball, Smut, Story within a Story, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableR/pseuds/SableR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are stories written in the stars. Tales of legends and heroes, lovers and villains, triumph and tragedy. Solas prefers to sleep outside, under the endless wheel of the sky, and shares its tales with Inquisitor Lavellan when she joins him at night. Solas/F!Lavellan with a cameo from Dorian, inspired by the astrarium codex entries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peraquialus - The Mariner Prince

Clariel liked Sera. It was nice having someone her own age around, someone to balance out all the old souls in the Inquisition. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to just have some  _fun_ , without worrying about the end of the world all the time. Scouting for Wardens on the Storm Coast became a breathless race; she chased her fellow rogue along the steep and slippery cliffs to reach the next camp, dancing on the knife's edge of a lethal fall. She could hear Cassandra yelling at them, but for the first time in weeks she didn't give a damn.

Sera was faster but Clariel was more sure in forest, using the trees to give herself height and advantage. She swung down into the camp just as Sera came into view over the top of the hill. When she caught up seconds later, Sera cursed and punched Clariel on the shoulder, light and friendly.

"No fair," she said, grinning widely. "Trees are cheating!"

"You're the one who never specified rules." The teasing earned her another punch, this one a little harder than the last.

Sera was a lot less fun at night when she slept like a log, flailed her legs, and snored to put the Iron Bull to shame. No amount of poking would get her to stop, not even a good hard shove to the other side of their shared tent. After nearly an hour of tossing and turning, Clariel gave it up. She'd slept on the earth often enough while out hunting for her clan; she could easily get used to it again. It was certainly better than sleeping next to a thunderstorm.

She gathered up her bedroll and slipped outside, tiptoeing past Solas, who had set up his blankets underneath the boughs of a large willow tree. He never slept in a tent, not even when it rained. Clariel made her way around the side of the tree, trying to give him some space.

" _Lethallan_?" she heard him murmur.

She cringed a little. "Sorry," she whispered back. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Hardly." He sat up, looking at her with alert eyes through the boughs of the willow. "But your watch is not for another hour."

"Sera was snoring to wake the dead. Not good for sleep."

Solas chuckled as she climbed into her bedroll. "I can imagine. I prefer it out here, feeling starlight and night wind before crossing into the Fade." She couldn't see him now that she was lying down, but his calm, deep voice carried easily. Clariel looked up into the branches of the willow. A crescent moon and the constellation of the Voyager shone down through the gently swaying leaves. She stared up at the ship, wondering how it had gotten its name.

"Do the Dalish tell the tale of the Mariner Prince?" asked Solas, as though he'd read her mind. "The king's second son who angered Elgar'nan in search of the light of the stars."

"No. We have no stories for the Voyager at all."

"Would you like to hear one? Or did you come out here for peace and quiet?"

Clariel smiled to herself. For all that he claimed to disdain company and keep to himself, Solas was always more than eager to share his wisdom and knowledge with her. "I'd love a story,  _hahren_."

She heard him draw a deep breath, his voice drifting over to her on the light breeze.

"When Arlathan was young, the king of what is now the Free Marches had two sons. A warrior, bold and strong, and his younger brother the mariner. Together, the princes expanded the borders of the kingdom - the younger leading with his maps and ships, the elder following and putting the land to the sword.

"But the king was a narrow-minded man, and only bestowed glory and honor upon his first son, the conqueror. As the years passed and his elder brother received accolades and wealth beyond counting, jealousy festered in the younger brother's heart. He was a mage and craftsman of considerable skill, and he set about constructing a ship that would lead him where his gloryhound brother could not follow - to the stars."

"A ship that could sail the wind?" She looked up at the constellation, imagining it as a vessel of crystal and glass and woven starlight. "Did those actually exist in ancient Arlathan?"

Solas hesitated for a moment. "I cannot say. So much of Arlathan is lost to us." It took him a few moments for him to resume the story, his sweet baritone voice bringing the world of old back to life.

"For seventy-seven nights, the mariner prince worked on his ship. He summoned slaves beyond counting from across the kingdom to build his great craft; he cut out each and every one of their tongues to ensure secrecy. But just after sunset on the last evening, when his work neared completion, fate led the elder brother to the hidden harbor. He did not realize how bitter and black his younger brother's heart had become, and approached the ship in wonder."

"But the mariner prince felt only hate for his rival. He fell upon his brother, slit his throat, and bound him to the prow of the ship where the figurehead should have been." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Solas point a hand at the sky. "See the red star on the very front of the Voyager? That is the elder brother's spirit, trapped aboard the cursed vessel for eternity."

Clariel shuddered, though it wasn't a cold night. "This is hardly a happy bedtime story."

"You did not ask for a  _happy_  story," he reminded her. "The moment his brother's blood touched the ship, its crystalline surface turned dark red, and its magic came to life. Sails of midnight and mooncloth unfurled, and the mariner prince stepped aboard to seek his destiny. The ship glided across the sky, silent as a whisper, and all who fell under its shadow felt a frisson of dread. The mariner prince set a course of the north star, the one that had been his guiding light for his whole life, to claim it as his own.

"But it was not to be. When the sun rose, the ship's magic failed, and it was all the prince could do to land it safely in the sea. The ship was constructed in shadow, and could only fly in shadow. The treacherous prince raged against the heavens, but no man can compel the sun to set and the stars to rise. He simply had to wait, seething with impatience, until the sun finally sank below the horizon.

"He urged the ship upward, its deck completely awash in his own brother's blood. It drew closer and closer to the north star, close enough for its light to burn the mariner prince's grasping fingers. But when the moment of his triumph was at hand, Elgar'nan the Father, furious at this princeling's fratricide and presumption, struck him from the wheel. His body fell from the sky, burning like a star, landing at the feet of his stricken father.

"Elgar'nan gave chase to the vessel, but without a helmsman, the ship careened wildly through the night sky, still cursed by the elder brother's horror and pain. It crashed through the stars, sending them tumbling to the earth in a fiery cataclysm. In the end, it was Mythal who soothed the elder brother's torment. Her touch gave him the mercy of an insensible sleep, and the cursed ship slowly drifted to a halt in the sky.

"Elgar'nan had already exacted his vengeance upon the mariner prince, but Mythal took hers upon the kingdom that produced him and brought such ruin to the world. The king had no further line, and slowly but surely watched his lands fall to worthier rulers. It is said that when he at last entered  _uthenera_ , his grieving spirit sought out his elder son. Together they sleep aboard the mariner prince's cursed ship, drifting aimlessly across the sky."

A long, long silence followed his story; Clariel saw him sit up, leaning over to see if she was still awake. As if she could sleep at all after that; her eyes were glued open, fixed on the angry red star at the bow of the Voyager.

"Not the sort of bedtime story you knew among the Dalish?" he asked, not unkindly.

She shook her head. "Not exactly," she admitted. "I'm...not sure how well I'll sleep after that."

Solas sighed softly. "I apologize. Varric is a better storyteller, though I could try again with another."

Clariel shook her head and crawled out of her bedroll. "It's ok. It's almost time for my watch anyway. But..." She hesitated briefly, then smiled at him. "I'd love another story tomorrow evening."

For a moment she thought he was going to say no, watching her with surprise. Then he smiled back and nodded. "Tomorrow. I will try to think of a happier tale."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading and reviewing, and I hope you enjoy the tales! I won't be writing stories for all the astrariums, and some stories are inspired by pre-existing legend and tales. The Mariner Prince draws on Icarus from Greek legends, and Aldarion the Mariner from Tolkien's legendarium. Thanks as always to BioWare for their wonderful game and the codex entries that inspired this fic, and my wonderful beta KelaSaar, who has so graciously put up with my Solas hellspiral :)
> 
> Link to the Peraquialus codex entry: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Constellation:_Peraquialus


	2. Bellitanus: The Lost Alamarri

The stars were beautiful from Skyhold, larger and brighter as though the mountains themselves lifted the keep toward the sky. But Clariel couldn't see them from her designated quarters. She sat at the very foot of the lavish Orlesian bed, wondering how many others were still huddled in tents out in the courtyard. A roaring fire crackled nearby, almost too warm for comfort, and the thick layers of stone and wood all around her suddenly felt like a cage.

Her camping bedroll sat in a corner of the room, very out of place next to the fine mahogany furniture. She picked it up and crept down the stairs, picking her way through the fallen timbers and construction equipment littering the great hall. Moonlight peeked through the holes in the ceiling, sending her shadow jumping along the rubble.

"What are you doing, Inquisitor?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin. The door to the rotunda swung open, framing Solas in dim torchlight. Clariel took a deep breath, heart still pounding against her ribs. "Solas. Don't  _do_  that."

He raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at the bedroll under her arm. Then he smiled. "Wait a moment." He was back in seconds, striding out into the hall with his own bedroll slung over his back. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked gently.

"No. It's too warm in my room."

It was a poor excuse, but she didn't have to say anything else. Solas immediately understood. In silence, the two of them walked back into the rotunda, then out to the fortress's ramparts. Out here the air was clear and cold. Clariel let out a small sigh of relief. The courtyard below still occasionally stirred with activity, but for now, she didn't have to be part of it.

She set up her bedroll next to the wall; Solas whispered something, and a ball of fire appeared next to her bedroll for warmth. The flame took the shape of a flower, its petals spreading and closing as it flickered. "Show-off," she said with a wink.

He didn't even look abashed. "It would be inconvenient for the Inquisitor to catch cold from such a trivial habit of sleeping outdoors." He stretched out his own bedroll next to her, seemingly oblivious to the cold air on his bare scalp.

"Then maybe you should help her get to sleep,  _hahren_."

Solas sighed, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in a tiny half-smile. "You are greedy,  _lethallan_. Only one story." His hand traced out the constellation of the Maiden far above them. "A love story, of a sort."

Clariel blinked at him. She had a sneaking suspicion that any love story Solas might tell would be the tragic sort, or bittersweet at best. He caught her dubious expression and his smile broadened. "Don't worry. I know better than to tell you disturbing things at night." He rubbed his hands together, and the flame dancing between their bedrolls grew dimmer.

"Before this place was named Skyhold, it was  _Tarasyl'an Te'las_  to our people, the place where the sky was held back. There has always been magic on this soil. It has changed hands many times, through terrible sieges, treachery, or merely the passing from parent to child. A few nights ago, I dreamed of the first human to seek refuge on this mountaintop. A lone Alamarri woman, fleeing the ravages of the First Blight.

"Whatever you think you know of the First Blight, it wasn't like that. It was much, much worse. Darkspawn do not only taint the land; they empty the Fade as well. Without dreamers, there are no dreams. Much of the First Blight is only recorded in silence, nothingness where the dreams of a village or city or entire people once were. All that remain are fragments of nightmare: ash and fire, dying breaths, thousands of lives going up in smoke."

"Not disturbing?" said Clariel, raising her eyebrows at him.

"I am merely setting the stage. Be patient,  _lethallan_." Solas waited until she'd settled herself in her bedroll to continue, his long fingers again following the outline of the Maiden in the sky.

"The spirits do not remember the name of the Alamarri woman who took refuge here. But she was strong and fierce, a mage of great skill. She had survived the darkspawn when her village was swallowed up by the Blight. She was resourceful enough to survive in the mountains, even in bitter winter. And when she stumbled upon the ruins of  _Tarasyl'an Telas_ , she felt its ancient magic and knew that she was saved.

"By day, she ventured into the mountains to gather and hunt. By night, she raised the crumbling walls of  _Tarasyl'an Telas_  with her magic and labor, renewed wards that had been abandoned for hundreds of years. She began to dream of a warm, friendly presence that showed her visions - elven warriors making their last stand, dwarven exiles chanting a song of home, mages holding back a tide of demons when the Veil grew thin."

"A spirit?" Clariel asked. "Does Skyhold have many spirits?"

"Skyhold is ancient, and ancient places are home to spirits beyond counting," said Solas. "It was Valor who came to her, drawn by the fierce fire that burned in her heart, and the brightness of her spirit. Imagine, if you will, what it must have been like from Valor's perspective: the long silence of the abandoned ruin shattered by a powerful presence on the other side of the Veil."

He hesitated, choosing his next words slowly and carefully. "I would not say that it loved her; love is a tenuous, complicated thing beyond the comprehension of most spirits. But Valor was fascinated by her, yearned for her, and she in turn had a companion at last after her solitary flight. She remained here for almost the entire winter, rebuilding the ruin and strengthening its magical defenses, sharing tales and memories with Valor each time she dreamed. Perhaps she meant to find more of her scattered people, lead them to a place where they could rest and regroup."

"Like you did for the Inquisition."

Solas shook his head. "For you, Clariel.  _Tarasy'lan Telas_  has never been held for long by the unworthy or weak-willed. It demands someone like you to harness its full potential." Magical firelight danced in his sharp blue eyes.

"But I'm not - " She shook her head, struggling to find the right words. "I'm not even a mage like that Alamarri woman. I was just unlucky enough to wind up with this." And she lifted her left hand, the one that bore the Anchor.

" _You_  make the difference. Not magic, not the Anchor." He said it so simply, like it wasn't opinion but rather unshakable fact. A small smile touched his eyes, softening their intensity. "You will understand soon enough."

She certainly didn't understand at that moment, and it took her a second to realize he'd resumed his story.

"Eventually, the Blight came to the Frostback Mountains. It started as a trickle, small scouting bands of no more than ten.  _Tarasyl'an Telas_  was not hard to miss, but the ancient magic and the presence of Valor bolstered the Alamarri mage, and she easily fended them off. Then the darkspawn began to come by the dozens. They too crashed against the fortress like waves on rock. But a week after she first sighted the darkspawn, the mountainside turned black with them as they poured out of the abandoned Deep Roads, hundreds and thousands strong.

"She knew she would die, and so did Valor. So the spirit stepped across the Veil for the first time in its existence, joining its strength with hers for one final fight."

Clariel blinked. "It possessed her?"

Solas shook his head. "Spirits are capable of forming more symbiotic relationships with mortal hosts, though they run the risk of becoming corrupted and losing their purpose. But Valor was only with her a short time. Together they stood atop the rebuilt walls, and that night, her magic was almost unstoppable. Rock split at her command, bringing the mountains themselves down upon her foes. Fire and lightning crashed from the heavens. And Valor knew what it was to be mortal. It felt the weight of flesh, the warmth of her heartbeat, and the cold inevitability of death.

"It took seven darkspawn arrows to bring her down. As her life ebbed away, Valor begged her not to die; it had been so long since the spirit knew a mortal worthy of its gifts. The Alamarri smiled through bloody lips, looking up at the stars as she said, 'Do not grieve for me, dear friend. The Lady of the Skies will take me home.'

"As it happens, the Lady of the Skies did no such thing. The land was so blighted that no bird or beast came this way for decades, and no one remembers the Alamarri woman who decimated the darkspawn horde before succumbing to death. No one but Valor, who nurtures the memory of her to this day, and whispers her tale to those who have the ears to hear it."

Clariel was silent, mulling over everything Solas had ever told her about spirits and the Fade. "Did Valor tell you this story?" she finally asked.

Solas smiled. "Yes. If you like, I can take you to the area of the Fade where it dwells. You can talk to Valor yourself."

"I'd like that. It sounds fascinating." She hesitated for a moment on the next question before plunging ahead and asking it anyway. "Do you think she loved Valor?"

"I...I don't know."

He meant yes. She could read it in his hesitation, the way he didn't quite meet her eyes when he spoke. A wave of his fingers extinguished the mote of flame; the conversation was effectively over. Clariel sighed but decided not to press the point. She turned onto her back, looking up at the bright blue stars of the Maiden's constellation until her eyes finally drifted closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tale was very loosely inspired by the two episodes in Legend of Korra about Avatar Wan and Raava the Light Spirit.
> 
> Codex entry for Bellitanus: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Constellation:_Bellitanus


	3. Eluvia: A Boy's Dearest Wish

"She knows it was a dream, but she feels the weight of his body, the taste of his lips. There's sunlight and wind and color, bursting from him into her.  _Wake up_ , he whispers, but she doesn't want to. Not now, not so soon. Is this what it's like for him too?"

A very uncomfortable silence followed Cole's casual declaration of her thoughts as they sat around the campfire. Then Iron Bull, bless him, loudly cleared his throat and made a show of getting up to sharpen the blade of his axe. Dorian, on the other hand, wasn't going to give her that courtesy.

He grinned at her over the campfire. "So...you and Solas?"

At the moment, she wished she was Cassandra. Dorian wouldn't dare give Cassandra shit, or if he somehow worked up the gumption, he'd earn himself a bloody nose for his trouble. She stared into the flames, grateful for the dim, flickering light that hid the blush creeping along her ears.

"He's not my type," Dorian continued, "but I can see the appeal. He certainly has nice shoulders."

Cole tilted his head, reminding Clariel forcefully of a fledgling bird. "What's so special about Solas's shoulders?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Cole, I'd rather not talk about this, if you don't mind. Dorian, just - shut up."

The spirit drifted over toward where Iron Bull stood at the weapon rack, undoubtedly to ask him the same question. Dorian laughed, shaking his head at her. "Oh, still your venom-barbed tongue, fierce maiden! How will I survive such stinging rebukes?"

Clariel buried her head in her arms and groaned. "I might just leave you for the undead tomorrow morning."

"I'm a necromancer, Inquisitor. The undead are practically my best friends."

"Well, good for you. You won't have any others at this rate."

"Touchy." She heard Dorian stand up and come around to her side of the dying fire. His hand touched her shoulder, warm even through his gloves. "Brooding doesn't suit you nearly as well as it does Cullen. Or Blackwall. You're much too pretty."

She had to laugh at that.  _I'm worried. This isn't like you_ , she heard between the teasing words. "Someone has to be second prettiest in the Inquisition," she said, lifting her head. "You ran away with first already."

"It doesn't stop our dear Madame de Fer from trying to challenge me."

"We all have to aspire to something."

His grin widened. "There. That's better." A faint, flickering moonbeam peeked through the clouds, which had finally begun to part earlier in the evening. Clariel was starting to wonder if she'd ever be dry again after spending a week in the Fallow Mire rescuing their soldiers. Of course, as fate would have it, the rain let up and the clouds began to disappear after they had already concluded their business.

"Take a walk with me," said Dorian, getting to his feet. "We both need it after that greasy mess Bull calls food."

" _You_  cook next time, Vint," Iron Bull called over his shoulder.

"I'm afraid Inquisitor Lavellan has expressly forbidden me from trying to cook. In perpetuity."

Watching the two of them, Clariel couldn't fathom how Mother Giselle - or anyone for that matter - ever thought Dorian was a threat. For starters, he was a rubbish liar. His smirk never quite hid the flickers of worry in his eyes, or how the corners of his mouth tightened when he fretted. But she let him have this one, following him out of camp and up the road through the ruins of Fisher's End.

When they reached the statue of Andraste, Dorian slowed down and cleared his throat. "No more prying ears, or...whatever Cole does. Do you want to talk?"

Truthfully, there wasn't much to talk about. She and Solas had met in the Fade, as they had every night for a while now. She kissed him, he kissed her back, then pulled away. That was that. But each time she thought about it, her stomach did somersaults, and her heart pounded in her throat. She wasn't sure she could put the feeling in words, or if she even wanted to.

"Not about Solas," she finally said. "Let's just talk about something else."

"Orlesian fashion? My excellent physique?" Dorian made a show of flexing his arms as he leaned lazily against the statue.

"Insufferable." Clariel looked up at the huge stone form looming over them, a woman surrounded by three smaller supplicants. The gap in the clouds drifted overhead, briefly crowning the statue's head with the constellation of Eluvia. Like most images of the prophetess, her face was blank, featureless, both more and less than a person.

"Tell me about Andraste," she said on a whim. "I've heard that the Tevinter stories about her are different from the southern Chantry's."

"I don't think the faithful would approve of me poisoning the Inquisitor's ears with my wicked, wicked heresy."

She'd definitely heard that sentiment from some of the more vocal members of the Chantry, and it got under her skin even as a jest. "Fuck them," she said, glaring up at Andraste's visage. "They don't have a monopoly on truth. No one does."

Dorian stared as though she'd grown another head, then broke into peals of laughter. "You are full of marvelous surprises, my friend," he said, his eyes warm with affection. "And you swear so beautifully. I wish I had some way to capture the sound. I could repeat it for Mother Giselle the next time she clucks at me."

Still laughing, he took a few steps from the statue. "Let's see. If you want dark blasphemy from the forbidden north, I'm afraid I'll disappoint. The basic story is more or less the same. But we had a curious custom that I don't see here in the south. Do you know who Archon Hessarian was?"

Clariel nodded. She'd torn through half the books in Haven's Chantry library, once it became clear she couldn't go back to the Marches.

"Every year, on the anniversary of Hessarian's death, everyone gathered at the fountains in Minrathrous's central plaza to listen to a special sermon. Our fountains are nothing like the stone rubbish you have down here. They are gold and clockwork, brought to life by magic. Some of them even have spirits that sing each of the hours."

She perched on the statue's pedestal, listening to him with rapt attention. For all that he complained about Tevinter, Dorian came alive talking about his homeland. He was just as homesick as she'd been after the Breach, though it rarely showed.

"The largest of the fountains had Hessarian and Andraste as its centerpiece, the Archon driving his sword through her as she burned. Tevinter legend says that as Andraste died, she whispered a secret from the Maker into Hessarian's ear, as a reward for his mercy. Hessarian carried it to his grave.

"My parents preferred to keep me separate from the commoners, but I had ears. Folk tales claimed that if you could guess the secret, and whispered it back to Hessarian's fountain, Andraste herself would grant you one wish. Nonsense, of course, but I was a young boy with an imagination and far too much time on his hands. So one year, I gave my parents the slip during the sermon and joined the line of commoners trying to guess Hessarian's secret."

Clariel grinned at him. "Always a troublemaker, I see."

Dorian didn't miss a beat. "Is there any other way to live, Inquisitor?" His smile turned mischievous.

"I could say I waited my turn patiently, like a good little boy, but that would be a lie. I was small enough to squeeze between people's legs and squirm my way to the front of the line. By the time I got close to the fountain, I had lost one shoe, ripped my fine feastday clothes, and gotten an elbow in the face from a sailor. My mother fussed over that bruise for weeks.

"It was all worth it, though. The fountain gleamed before me, just a few feet away. I was almost there, on the threshold of gaining my dearest wish!" He laughed and shook his head. "That, of course, was when I realized that I hadn't the foggiest clue what Hessarian's secret might be.

"But even then, I had some inkling of how things worked in Tevinter. Secrets were supposed to be salacious. Dangerous. The sort of thing that my parents whispered after dinner, when I was supposed to be asleep. I had to think fast, but a few seconds later when I climbed up onto the lip of the fountain, I had it. The most filthy, inappropriate thing my six year old mind could muster."

"Do I even want to know?" She could almost picture it, little Dorian perched on the edge of an enormous golden fountain, eyes bright with mischief.

"Unfortunately for me, the whole square knew. You were supposed to whisper the secret into Hessarian's ear, but I was much too short to reach. So I yelled at Hessarian as loudly as I could, 'The Maker pisses in his smallclothes!'" Dorian pitched his voice high and childish.

"You can't be serious!" said Clariel, dissolving into a fit of helpless giggles.

"Would I ever lie to you, Inquisitor?" Dorian was laughing with her now, caught up in pantomiming his childhood antics. "The whole crowd went silent. Even the priest stopped his droning. And I just stood there, proud as Hessarian himself, waiting for Andraste to grant my wish out of the blue. I caught sight of my mother, who was...not as pleased; I think that was the only time I've ever seen her run. She whisked me off the fountain, and I knew I was in for it then. But it wasn't all for nothing; as she dragged me back to the rest of my family, I saw her stifle a laugh.

"And that, Inquisitor, is my dastardly tale of Andraste, Hessarian, and the nature of a god's smallclothes."

There was one piece missing from his story, and curiosity got the better of her in that moment of levity. "What was your wish?"

She regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth. All of the warmth drained out of him. His face went cold and rigid, his lips pressing into a thin line. He took a breath, but the words came out in barely a whisper.

"For my father to be proud of me." His laugh sounded like cracking glass, sharp and brittle. "The folk stories said to keep my wish a secret if I ever wanted it to come true. But it hardly matters now."

"Dorian - "

"Please don't _._  You've already done more for me than my family ever has."

"You stubborn dolt." Clariel hopped off the statue and took a few steps toward him. "Will you shut up and let me give you a hug?"

He shut up. Dorian was a good deal taller and broader than her, but it worked when he leaned down for a hug. "You really are a unicorn," she heard him grumble as she patted his back. "I have a reputation to maintain, you know."

"Don't worry." She let him go and tried for a smile. "I'm sure you and I just spawned a dozen more salacious rumors with our little trip out here. Alone and unsupervised."

The familiar teasing smirk began to spread across his face again. "Excellent. We should do this again sometime."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's tale wasn't inspired by any particular story, but I took the general idea of a wishing well and re-purposed it for Tevinter. This was supposed to be just humorous, and then I got hit by Dorian feels. He's the best mage ever, and I felt he deserved his own chapter :)
> 
> Codex entry for Eluvia: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Constellation:_Eluvia


	4. Satinalis: The Last Masque of Barindur

Solas caught her hand when she started twisting the hem of her green velvet gown between her fingers. "Stop. It is a lovely dress, and it would be a shame to ruin it before we even reach the Winter Palace."

Clariel glared at him.  _He_  didn't have to court the Orlesians tonight.  _He_  didn't have to hang onto Gaspard's arm knowing the man had killed their people for sport. He could just drink and watch, while she wasted precious time on the most empty-headed creatures Thedas had to offer. She snatched her hand away, staring out the window of their carriage.

That was a bad idea. Eyes stared back at her from all directions; walls of people lined the narrow streets of Halamshiral, standing on rooftops, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the fabled Herald of Andraste. The  _exotic_  Dalish elf sent by their Maker. The thought made her insides lurch - or maybe it was the carriage going over some rough cobbles. She yanked the curtains shut and folded her arms.

"Clariel..."

"I know," she said wearily. "Thedas is watching. Don't worry, Solas. I haven't brought the Inquisition this far only to lose it to the Great Game."

She knew she was being petulant, even childish. But she couldn't help it. Weeks of meticulous preparation - etiquette, heraldry, dancing, history - none of it prepared her for how much the real thing turned her stomach. At the moment, she'd rather take on another dragon with Bull. Dragons were forthright. Dragons made her want to fight or run, not crawl into a corner and be sick.

"They will certainly gossip if they spot you sharing a carriage with an elven apostate. You should have ridden with Josephine."

"Josie and I are friends, but I might shoot her if she tries to dispense one more piece of 'last-minute' advice."

She expected Solas to scold her; today more than any day of her life, tact and caution mattered, and she was already snappish with nerves. But instead, he simply held out his arms, offering her refuge for a few precious minutes. "Come here,  _vhenan_. Let me tell you a story. Something to...help lend you perspective."

Jittery as she was, she had trouble saying no to that. She let Solas's arms support her, resting her head against his chest. He smelled  _right_  even with the fancy dress uniform - paper and ink and bitter herbs, like rosemary. The tense knot of nerves in her stomach eased, and she couldn't help breathing in his scent. She felt him chuckle, the low sound reverberating through them both.

He opened his palm, and little motes of light flew from his fingers to rest against the gilt ceiling of their carriage. "Satinalis," she said, smiling up at him. "The Celebrant. It's as close as we'll see to a real night sky." The lights of the palace and the smoke from the city below conspired to blot out the stars.

Solas shook his head. "Long ago, it was the Psychopomp. Mortemalis, the ancient Tevinters called it. A reminder that all men must die."

"Very cheery. Atmospheric, even, for a Winter Ball."

He gave her a tiny, secretive smile. "I thought you might enjoy that." The points of light on the ceiling elongated into bright lines and started to move, bringing the shapes of the night sky to life on Solas's whim.

"The humans living in northern Thedas were once four different tribes. They were not yet the Imperium, and frequently made war upon each other." She watched as tiny, stick-line humans danced across the ceiling, waving spears at one another. "During one particularly hot summer, a terrible plague ravaged the tribes. It struck down lowborn and noble alike, killing almost all who succumbed to it. The maimed virulence, they called it, for the few who survived often lost eyes, ears, or tongues."

One by one, the little points of light that made up the human figures began to wink out of existence.

"The king of the Barindur tribe had a grand palace on an island off the shore, and as the virulence progressed toward his lands, he fled to the island with his court and soldiers. He destroyed the bridges, sealed the gates, and declared that none would enter or leave the palace until the virulence had run its course. So the king and his peers feasted and reveled while his people died by the hundreds within sight of his walls."

The scene on the ceiling shifted to the palace, and she noticed that it greatly resembled Halamshiral. She raised her eyebrows at Solas, whose smile became fierce. A bright, dangerous flash of teeth in the dim light cast by his magic.

"Nobles, of course, need servants. Two of them waited upon the king himself, a pair of beautiful sisters. The elder prayed for vengeance, for the king had forced her to leave her husband and children behind to perish. The younger prayed for death. Their lives had always been hard, and only became more wretched as the days wore into weeks, and the revelry grew more debauched.

"It was Death who answered their prayers. It came to the sisters in a dream, and spoke in a cold whisper that every mortal heart understands. 'Distract the gate guard,' it told the younger sister. 'Distract the king,' it told the elder."

Clariel watched as the palace transformed into five figures: the sisters, the king, the guard, and a hooded outline carrying a severed head.

"The following evening, the younger sister brought wine to the guard on duty. When he slumbered, she raised the gate, and Death walked across the water into the palace. In its wake, revelry turned to agony, song into wails of despair. Death crossed the great hall unopposed and ascended the stairs to the king's chambers on silent feet.

"When Death entered, the king was also insensible with drink. But the elder sister had his own sword at his throat, and she looked upon Death with no fear. 'He is mine,' she said.

"Death lowered its hood to show a face with no eyes or ears, a mouth that spoke without a tongue. 'You are  _all_  mine.' But then it bowed and stepped back, waiting just on the other side of the threshold. From the king's bedchamber, the elder sister could hear the dying moans of every soul in the palace." The figures slowly faded away, until the only one remaining was the silhouette of Death.

"'You may have him,' said Death. 'Until the music stops.'"

She caught Solas's eye in the reflected light of his magic, and there was nothing left for either of them to say. She could feel the cold armor of his tale banding around her heart. He held her until the clip-clip of hooves on stone came to a sudden stop. Clariel sat back up, smoothing the wrinkles from her gown. A pair of delicate silver gloves went over her hands, and Solas helped her tuck a few stray curls back into her elaborately done hair.

He gave her fingers one final squeeze. "Hunt well, and come find me in the garden when you have a moment." Then their coachman opened the carriage door, extending his white-gloved hand to her.

She stepped outside into a circle of Inquisition carriages, gathered before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Winter Palace. The nobles inside the gates didn't press and point the way the people of Halamshiral had. But they did look, furtive glances directed toward her  _vallaslin_  and pointed ears, whispers behind fans and masks. Clariel turned away, heading straight for Josephine's carriage at the front of the procession.

She didn't have a mask; none of them did. But Vivienne had made it clear that she'd be better off without one.  _"A true master of the Game needs no mask but her face,"_  she'd said. _"_ _Courtesy is your armor - and your weapon."_

"There you are!" Josephine appeared out of the carriage beside her, resplendent in a dress of deep red satin. "Are you ready?"

"No more 'last-minute' advice?" asked Clariel.

Her ambassador studied every inch of her presentation, from the delicate hairstyle framing her ears to the rich hem of her gown. She must have done something right, because Josephine's worried expression eased. "There is nothing I can tell you that you don't already know. The Game is like Wicked Grace played to the death. You must never reveal your cards."

"I never planned to."

Josephine took a deep breath. "Everything...will be fine."

Clariel could hear the band playing even from outside the gates. An eye-watering array of perfumes lingered in the air around her, and everywhere she looked, she saw the glint of masks and the eyes that waited behind them. Most of the Inquisition's soldiers and guests had left their carriages now, all of them looking to her.

The mask came with surprisingly little effort, a warm and reassuring smile. "Of course it will, Lady Montilyet. We should not keep the Grand Duke waiting." Before the carriages left, she snuck a glance at Solas, hanging back with Cassandra and Vivienne. That same deadly smile flashed across his face before he turned away.

The Inquisition soldiers preceded her through the gates, their armor newly polished and gleaming. They stood at attention, a column of brilliant steel flanking her and Josephine. From the other side of her soldiers, she saw a man in chevalier's garb, royal blue fabric accenting his armor. Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, the usurper in the flesh.

"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor Lavellan." She returned his short bow with a slight curtsey, neither of them willing to concede more than that.

"The pleasure is mine, Grand Duke. Your invitation was most gracious." Their eyes met behind the opulent silver mask he wore, and she saw not an emperor, or a general, or even an enemy. She saw mortality. The same mortality that lingered beneath the skin of everyone around her, the frailty that no gilded mask could ever hide.

Gaspard offered his arm to her, and she took it with a smile.  _Until the music stops_ , she thought as they passed the elite of the mighty Orlesian Empire.  _You are all mine until the music stops._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the timeline in World of Thedas, the Barindur kingdom mysteriously disappeared back in the Ancient Age. This story has many themes in common with Edgar Allen Poe's "Masque of the Red Death," Boccaccio's Decameron, and Neil Gaiman's "Death in Venice" from Endless Nights. It also draws from the biblical tale of Judith and Holofernes. I wanted it to incorporate both interpretations of the Celebrant; the modern Thedosian one of revelry, and the much older Tevinter depiction of Mortemalis.
> 
> I also wanted to explore the darker elements of Solas and my Lavellan's relationship. This is how I interpret Solas's "black wolf" side: less the savage beast, and more the dangerous trickster. Cold, calculating, and focused on victory to the exclusion of all else. And he brings out the darker side of my Lavellan, who is otherwise a very gentle soul.
> 
> Codex entry for Satinalis: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Constellation:_Satinalis


	5. Fenrir: The Warrior and the Wolf

The trees of the Emerald Graves loomed over their campsite as Clariel sat by the fire with a long chain of flowers. She carefully wove the white and red blossoms through one another, forming a circlet around a frame of leftover trap wire. Solas was already asleep, waiting for her in the Fade. But tonight, with the full moon and the constellation of the wolf peeking through the branches, she had a task to complete before she could join him.

Vivienne was already asleep, Cassandra a silent outline standing watch. Clariel got to her feet and left the circle of warm orange light. The statue wasn't far from the Inquisition camp, facing away toward the west. She approached the stone wolf from the back, just as she'd done as a child, standing on tiptoe to slip the crown of flowers over its weathered ears.

It was larger than the statues from her youth, and probably older if the cracks along its muzzle and tail were any indication. The grey stone gleamed in the moonlight, and for a moment it almost looked like fur rippling in the shifting shadows, the animal shaking itself free of its carved prison. Then it passed, and she was left with nothing but granite.

 _May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps_.

But there were footsteps behind her, ones she would recognize anywhere. "Solas _,"_  she said without turning around. "I thought you were asleep."

"And I thought you were beyond such superstitions."

"Call it a moment of nostalgia," she said with a smile. "Something I've been doing since I was a little girl." She wrapped her arms around Solas's waist, her head resting against his shoulder.

"Then your clan also followed the custom of appeasing the Wolf?" His voice always took on an edge when he spoke of the Dalish.

"We sent the children with flower offerings," she explained gently. "Their footsteps are the lightest, and even the Wolf doesn't prey upon the innocent. My cousins and I used to draw straws for it. Mahanon was always the worst, trying to bribe Ellana or me to do it even when he drew the short straw." She couldn't help a giggle at the memory.

Solas didn't say anything for a few seconds, fixated on the statue crowned in flowers. Then he seemed to shake himself back to reality. "And you?" She felt his hand moving through her hair, slowly unwinding her braids. "You were not afraid?"

"Of course I was. I was a child, and my father was our clan's storyteller. I'd heard every tale of the Dread Wolf's treachery by the time I was seven." She laughed and reached up to readjust the slightly crooked crown. "But eventually I realized the statues weren't going to spring to life and sink their teeth into me."

She looked from Solas to the statue, a thought suddenly popping into her head. "Did you ever meet the Dread Wolf? Dalish legend says he still walks the Fade."

Solas's hands went still. "I am cautious enough to avoid unwanted attention," he said slowly. His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up to meet his. "Why do you ask,  _vhenan_? You said you've already heard every tale of the Wolf."

Clariel hesitated, wondering how she was going to explain. If anyone would understand, if anyone had an answer, it would be Solas.

"When I was a little girl, my father told us the story of how Fen'Harel sealed away the Creators and the Forgotten Ones," she began. "As everyone else was leaving the campfire, I asked him why we didn't just pray to Fen'Harel. If he was the only one left, then he was the only one who could hear us and answer."

He cringed a little. "I can imagine the reaction to such a question, even from a child."

"I'll never forget the way they all  _stared_. My father hurried me back to our aravel. He was white as snow, and he didn't say a word until we were underneath the awning. He told me to never, ever ask such questions again, so I didn't. But I always wondered if there was an answer, and he just didn't want to tell me."

Solas didn't say anything for a long, long time. He stepped up next to the statue, resting his fingers against its jaw. He ran his hands over the granite, tracing every fracture and crack, his face still and controlled as a porcelain mask. Finally he took a deep breath, still not looking directly at her.

" _Ma nuvenin._  A story of the Dread Wolf, then, and the nature of his gifts." He spoke so softly she had to move closer and strain her ears, both of them standing in the stone wolf's shadow.

"A great warrior once roamed Elvhenan, renowned both for his skill with the blade, and his thirst for knowledge. For centuries he sought worthy opponents to hone his swordsmanship, and worthier scholars to sharpen his mind. It is said that none could defeat him in a duel, not even the gods' greatest champions. He boasted that only the gods themselves could hope to match him, risking the wrath of Elgar'nan for his impertinence. But fate had a different challenger in store for him.

"As the swordsman meditated one day beneath the boughs of an oak tree, Fen'Harel came to him. Delighted that the Dread Wolf would seek him out, he immediately challenged the god. Fen'Harel accepted a duel to first blood, on the condition that the warrior first listen to the wisdom he had to offer. Greedy for knowledge, he agreed, only to be disappointed as Fen'Harel recounted a children's tale. A simple one that any elf could tell word for word.

"Not wanting to offend the Wolf, he smiled and said he understood the point of the story when it was done. Before he was even finished speaking, Fen'Harel struck him across the mouth and sent him sprawling in the dust, the first to draw blood from him in centuries. 'Your eyes told me one thing, your mouth another,' he told the stunned warrior. 'I rewarded your eyes by striking your mouth. You have the wisdom that I offered...but the duel is mine.'"

Solas sighed, finally turning away from the statue and back to her. "The gifts of gods are double-edged, and only fools rely on them. I hope that you know better than the swordsman."

Clariel frowned at him. It couldn't be as simple as that. "Fen'Harel's lesson spared his life. And wisdom is its own reward, a better gift than any simple victory."

"There are few who value wisdom over power, over selfish pride." As he'd done for the wolf, he traced her face: her cheekbones, the tips of her ears, the burgundy pattern of June's  _vallaslin_. His eyes softened into a smile, and he plucked the flower crown from the statue, settling it on her brow.

"It suits you better."

She started to giggle at the unexpectedly whimsical gesture. But the faint tremor in his fingers and the edge in his voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Solas? What's wrong?"

It passed as soon as she said anything, like all of his other curious bouts of moodiness. He leaned down to kiss her, a slow and light caress of his lips over hers, an almost innocent touch. But then he took a step forward, pinning her hips against the base of the wolf statue. His tongue slid into her mouth, hands reaching for bare skin underneath her shirt. He kissed her until she moaned, trembling in his arms, then pulled back and dragged his lips toward the hollow of her throat.

"Nothing is wrong," he breathed. "Right now, everything is as it should be."

She blinked at him, puzzled, then lost the thought completely when she felt his arousal press against her thigh. "We're outside," she protested half-heartedly.

She felt the low rumble of Solas's laugh. "And alone, save for the Wolf. You did say you weren't afraid." His hands were already at her shirt, making quick work of the laces, stopping now and then to rub her nipples through the cloth.

Clariel drew her breath in a hiss. Solas's cheeks were flushed, blue eyes wild with longing. He  _enjoyed_  this dangerous irreverence, stealing her offering from the Wolf and taking her in its shadow. So she dodged his seeking lips and bit the tip of his ear. He cursed at her, hands stuttering, catching on the buttons of her pants. She yanked the soft woolen shirt over his head and braced her palms against his chest.

Then he went completely still, his whole demeanor changing on a dime. His eyes turned soft in the moonlight. He took both her hands in his and lifted them over her head. Magic flowed through her fingers, warm and gentle, binding her wrists to the stone. "Are you frightened,  _vhenan_?" he asked, hands coming down to cup her face.

"No. Never."

Gentle, reverent hands opened her shirt, letting it hang off her arms. He tugged the cotton breastband down over her hips, taking her pants and smallclothes with it in one sharp tug. Then he took a step back to look at her. Hands bound to the Wolf, the flower crown settled over her loose hair, legs spread and cheeks flushed pink. She saw him swallow hard before he quickly pulled off his own pants and closed the distance between them.

There was no artistry in his motions, no gentle and deliberate seduction. He seized her legs and pulled them up around his waist, trapping her between his hips and the unyielding stone Wolf. His lips found hers, hot and desperate, swallowing her moan when he slid inside her. She had no leverage, couldn't do anything but gasp and shiver as he set a relentless pace, teeth and lips tracing a line from her mouth to her neck. And she lost herself in him - the easy strength that held her up, the slap of skin on skin, the harsh breaths against her ear when she came with a violent shudder.

She felt him lean his weight on her, burying his moans against her shoulder as his own climax took him. They collapsed together against the statue, and before Clariel could even catch her breath, she felt the bonds around her wrists suddenly disappear. Solas caught her in his arms, gently guiding her shaking legs back to the ground. One of his hands came up to straighten the flower crown, knocked askew from their lovemaking.

"We - you - " She blinked up at him, trying to shake the daze from her mind. "That wasn't a dream."

His smile warmed her from head to toe. "There is more to this world than dreaming. And I have you to thank for that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warrior and the wolf is a Dragon Age themed retelling of a story from Legend of the Five Rings, about Shinsei and the Kami Bayushi. I hadn't planned on smut for this fic. But the moment Solas sees Lavellan crowned in the wreath meant for the Dread Wolf, it kind of went in that direction :D Internet cookies for those of you who can spot the lines that use Solas's "Hallelujah" rhythm from his in-game dialogue.
> 
> This was supposed to be the last chapter in this fic, but then Jaws of Hakkon came out, and I really enjoyed its storyline. I will be doing an epilogue chapter, set after the events of Jaws of Hakkon, and after Solas leaves. There will be MAJOR DLC SPOILERS in the epilogue.
> 
> Codex entry for Fenrir: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Constellation:_Fenrir


	6. Visus: The Inquisitor's Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains MAJOR spoilers for the Jaws of Hakkon DLC.

Clariel could still see smoke rising from the bonfires back in Stone-Bear Hold. She smiled to herself, knowing her friends were safe with their new allies. By a certain definition of safe, anyway. The last she'd seen before slipping away, Dorian was asking for a horrific hangover.

After Corypheus's defeat, it felt like she tripped over "friends" everywhere she went. The more persistent ones even sent retainers or distant family members to Skyhold. But the Avvar called her kin. They played no Great Game, and their bond was as true as the one between her and her friends. It was almost like being back with her clan.

She forced her tired legs up the slope toward the ancient Tevinter fortress. Bodies littered the pathway, and carrion crows circled overhead now that the dragon was gone. Briefly, she wondered if the rest of the Avvar would consider that an appropriate sky-burial. Or maybe they'd call it poetic justice, the Lady seizing her pound of flesh from the Hakkonites who'd abandoned her.

Her lonely footsteps echoed through the silent, empty fortress. She lit a veilfire torch, but the dim green light barely touched the sides of the walls. It was still cold, even without Hakkon's unnatural presence. She drew her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Thick fur and hide, a gift from the merchants of Stone-Bear Hold. It felt, she decided, rather like being hugged by a bear.

She'd have to give that a try, if Storvacker would let her.

The lingering, bone-deep ache from the dragon's icy breath made each step a trial. But she eventually reached the ritual chamber and ascended the rough stone steps to Ameridan's ritual site. His grave, marked only by a fine coating of silver ash. She'd watched him crumble to dust within his own armor, the armor that now belonged to her.

Clariel knelt and pulled out Professor Kenric's field kit. Slowly, meticulously, she gathered Ameridan's ashes into a little leather pouch. What remained of his physical body could barely fill a thimble, but Kenric would want it nonetheless. She smiled a little as she worked, picturing the awe and delight on the professor's face. Maybe he'd bring Ameridan's earthly remains back to Val Royeaux, to be entombed beside his friend Drakon. Maybe he'd raise hell until they sang the Chant for Ameridan in the Grand Cathedral, welcoming the last Inquisitor back to their Maker's side.

But the elvhen had their own rites. And Ameridan had no clan left to perform them, no Keeper to send him into the Beyond. So she would have to do. She began to pull the flowers and branches from her bag, laying them in a circle over his final resting place.

Rosemary for remembrance. Yew for death. Andraste's Grace for faith. Royal elfroot for the Dales. And orange-and-gold blossoms from the island where Telana had breathed her last, the flowers that grew between her bones.

She lit a candle from the veilfire torch, placing it in the very center of her offering.

 _"Hahren na melana sahlin. Emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin. Vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas."_ She extinguished her torch, leaving only the lonely green candle flame in a sea of cold darkness. " _Dareth shiral_ , Inquisitor Ameridan."

The words came easily enough; the conviction did not. Clariel sighed, rubbing her hands to keep warm. "I don't really know what to say." Her own voice echoed back at her from the towering stone walls. "You built shrines to the Creators and Andraste, but I don't believe in gods any more. I  _can't_."

Ameridan couldn't hear her, and neither could Falon'Din or Andraste. But the Veil was thin here, strangely warped over itself from the long years of Ameridan's binding spell. She felt spirits pressing in all around her, just like the augur had said. Drawn in by the brilliance of the Anchor, and the pull of her words.

At least the gods of the Avvar listened to prayers.

All it took was a push from the Anchor, a gentle untwist, and the Veil parted all around her. Once, it was a terrifying sensation. Now, it was as simple and natural as opening her eyes. Three spirits stepped across the open threshold, answering her invitation.

They reflected the living. And in a place imprinted with eight centuries of Ameridan's magic, they reflected aspects of his lost life. The reluctant Inquisitor of two faiths. The valiant slayer of demons. The beloved of Telana. They swirled around her, waiting, listening. They were more than a physical presence; she could sense their attention trained on her, a prickle that made her hair stand on end.

The Avvar made physical offerings to the spirits in exchange for their gifts. All she had to give was her story.

She took a deep breath and began to speak. "My name is Clariel of clan Lavellan. I grew up in the Free Marches, far to the north. My mother is a healer and herbalist, and my father tells our clan's stories. I spent almost my whole childhood with my older cousins, getting into all sorts of trouble. I haven't seen my family since coming south." She hesitated, then let the spirits hear what no one else did. "I miss them so much."

The memories flowed freely through her mind as she spoke, and three curious spirits eagerly absorbed them. She could feel them pressing on her mind, seeking more. So she gave them the tale that any Orlesian bard would have killed for, the true story of the Inquisitor. And as she did, she felt little flashes of memory enter her mind, stories that weren't her own.

When she spoke of the Conclave, Faith showed her Ameridan and Drakon, deep in prayer together. They knelt at Andraste's feet in one of Drakon's own private chapels. At the end of the Chant, Ameridan whispered a benediction to Mythal in elven. And when Drakon frowned at him, the Inquisitor grinned back and looked up at Andraste's face. "We are all Her children, and the divine does not mind the myriad names we have for Her."

When she relived the siege of Adamant, Valor showed her Ameridan, Haron, and Orinna, hunting powerful demons set loose in the tide of chaos. They followed Hybris's trail of devastation all the way across the Waking Sea, to a labyrinth of tunnels deep below Kirkwall. Orinna's alchemy shook the earth as monstrous claws struck sparks off Haron's shield. Ameridan stood in the center of the maelstrom, a point of steady calm while his magic wound around the pride demon in glowing chains.

And Love waited, patient and silent, until Clariel couldn't continue her tale without Solas. For weeks she'd done her best not to think of him, numbing herself with duty and exhaustion. But now the memories poured through, a river she couldn't stem. Gentle hands holding hers, magic stripping away her  _vallaslin_  before he disappeared into the darkness. The taste of his lips, the secret half-smile he kept for her alone. All the stories he'd ever told her, all the wisdom he'd shared...and all the dark secrets he must have kept.

It took her a few minutes to realize she hadn't said any of that out loud. She had her knees pressed to her chest, head buried in her trembling arms. Love's wispy, ephemeral fingers brushed her cheek, and she saw Ameridan and Telana.

Arguing over who had to scrub pots at camp. Asleep together under the trees of their homeland. Grim-faced, triple-checking weapons before riding south for the Frostback Basin. Begging each other not to die, knowing these were promises they could not hope to keep. She felt the ripples of Ameridan's spirit before death took him, his final thoughts of Telana's sun-warmed lips on his. Of going home to her.

The tears finally stared to fall. For Ameridan and Telana...for herself and Solas.

"It hurts because it matters," said Love, answering her unspoken question. Its voice was a softer, gentler echo of the last Inquisitor's. "It hurts because it was real." The spirit's presence wrapped around her, cradling and enveloping her in warmth. It remained like that until she'd finally exhausted her tears, until she could bring herself to speak again.

By the time she'd finished her tale, dim grey light was filtering through cracks in the ceiling. The veilfire had gone out hours ago. Valor and Faith disappeared back through the Veil, but Love lingered for a moment longer. Its lips touched her forehead, and all the hours of the day hit her in a warm, sleepy rush.

"Be at peace, Inquisitor," she heard it whisper. "We will carry your story through dreams." Clariel barely had the presence of mind to cover herself in the cloak before her eyes fell shut.

* * *

"I told you she'd be here. I followed her song in the Fade."

"Yes, Cole, that's all very well and good. Now help me with these blankets. Maker's breath, southerners are insane. How has she not frozen to death already?"

"She made a friend. She wasn't alone."

"We didn't see any other tracks coming in. Who could possibly - "

Clariel opened one eye to see Dorian kneeling over her. He breathed a sigh of relief when she stirred, then swore at her in Tevene. He always got snappish when he fretted.

" _Never_  do that again." He put an arm around her shoulders, helping her sit up.

Cole's face appeared over Dorian's shoulder. "Too bright, too loud, too early. Never drinking the mead again, like fiery weasels in my stomach."

She smiled at the spirit. "It's called a hangover, Cole. It's what happens when Dorian bites off more than he can chew. Figuratively speaking."

"Don't be too quick to thank me." Dorian began wrapping her in what felt like all the blankets from the hold. "Next time, I'll just let the frostbite take your nose."

"No, you won't," said Cole. "You think her nose is cute."

Dorian glared at the spirit. "Point. Missing it." He pushed a hot cup of broth into her hands. Lamb, by the rich smell of it.

Clariel struggled out of the excessive blankets. "You think my nose is cute?" she asked, sipping on the broth.

Dorian's grin didn't quite reach his eyes. He waited until she'd finished the whole cup, warm now from the inside out.

"Lavellan," he said, his voice low and serious. "Are you all right? Coming here by yourself, not telling anyone else...it's worrisome."

She didn't say anything for a long time. She looked over her shoulder at the funereal offerings for Inquisitor Ameridan, and the unlit candle in the center. Dorian followed her gaze, and with a snap of his fingers, the candle came back to life. Real flame, not veilfire, warm and bright.

"No," she finally said, letting him help her to her feet. "But I think I will be someday." Maybe in a week, in a month, a year. It was hard to tell, and she was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The first calm, peaceful night she'd had since Corypheus's fall.

Dorian looked at her critically from head to toe, then sighed and ruffled her hair. "The next time you decide to take a nap in an ancient ruin, just tell me. I would hate to get wrinkles on your behalf."

"Perish the thought."

She followed her friends out of the fortress. Back into the world where she was Inquisitor Lavellan, and Ameridan was but the shadow of a memory. The three of them walked along the riverbank, sunlight playing off the water and warming her skin through the tree canopy. And all around her, through the thinned Veil of the Frostback Basin, she felt the gods of the Avvar following in her wake.

She wasn't alone. She would never be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading Astrariums of Thedas; feedback is always appreciated :) I loved the Avvar spirit lore in Jaws of Hakkon, and the parallels between Ameridan and Lavellan gave me all the feels. Thanks as always to BioWare for their amazing game and DLC, and to KelaSaar for beta-reading.


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